


Presents

by Sunnyrea



Series: The War [10]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, First Time, Historical, M/M, Sex and plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 00:01:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11543202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: Between battles and work, Hamilton discovers it is Laurens' birthday and attempts to find him a present, bringing their relationship closer.[Part of a series but can be read as a stand alone story]





	Presents

**Author's Note:**

> There is sex in this and it is explicit, just warning. Enjoy.

John Laurens sits in the back library at Dawesfield House working on translating a letter from Baron d’Arendt into English. He could be working in the dining room turned aide-de-camp office what with headquarters taking over yet another private home. However, Tench Tilghman and Richard Kidder Meade were in a flurry over the attack several days past on Ford Mercer and Laurens would prefer some quiet. He is surprised the General did not choose this room for his own office. It is somewhat small as libraries go, so that could be the reason for its dismissal from another serviceable use for their army.

“Laurens?”

Laurens looks up to see Alexander Hamilton in the doorway. Laurens smiles instantly and pauses in his translation. “Hamilton.”

Hamilton holds up a sealed letter in his hand. “You have a letter.”

“And which front is this correspondence from?”

“The home front.” Hamilton walks over to the small desk by the window where Laurens sits and puts the letter down in front of him. “It is from your father.”

Laurens picks up the letter and swishes it back and forth in his hand for a moment. Then he looks up at Hamilton beside him. “Are Tilghman and Meade still in a state over the Hessian attack?”

Hamilton nods as he leans back against the wall beside the window and desk. “As well they should be.” Hamilton grins. “We just learned the attack was thwarted.”

Laurens' eyebrows fly up. “Defeated?”

Hamilton crosses his arms and shrugs. “Driven back at the very least and we might well call that a victory.”

“Any victory is one worth celebrating.” Laurens puts his quill down. “Certainly when it is Hessians.”

Hamilton chuckles, pulling one hand out of his crossed arms and dancing his fingers over the back of Laurens’ hand still holding his letter. Laurens smiles, glances around the empty library then back to Hamilton with another raise of his eyebrows. Hamilton raises his eyebrows back. He takes the letter out of Laurens’ hand, puts it on the desk then threads his fingers with Laurens’.

“And why do you hide back here?”

“Waiting for you, my dear boy.”

Hamilton leans over Laurens, his lips close but not quite touching. “Have you waited long?’

“I would wait longer.”

Hamilton smiles, half shy, half cocky and entirely himself. Laurens adores it. Hamilton closes the distance between them and kisses Laurens. Laurens leans up into the kiss, smells the ink and paper surrounding them both. Hamilton pulls back slightly, presses brief kisses to Laurens’ lips, feather light and enticing. Laurens wants to pull Hamilton down onto his lap and keep him there the whole day, tell Hamilton how much he cares, how much he wants him near always, how happy Hamilton makes him, how he maddeningly wants the war to never end so they can always remain this close.

Hamilton stands up straight again with a cheeky smile on his face, clearly aware of his effect on Laurens. Laurens cannot fault him for it.

“Will you not read your letter?” He taps his fingers on the ‘John Laurens’ written on the front.

“Ah, should I prioritize duty to the war or duty to one’s family first?”

Hamilton reaches out and picks up the papers Laurens was working on. Laurens sees him muttering out the French then glancing at Laurens’ translation. He looks up over the edge of the papers. “I could certainly help finish your French if you would wish to read what your father writes?”

Laurens gestures to a chair in the corner between the other window and a bookcase. “Then sit, Hamilton.”

Hamilton smiles, his cheeks pinched then he swivels and steps over to the chair, pulling it close beside Laurens. Laurens watches him as Laurens cracks open the wax seal on his letter and Hamilton positions himself on a corner of Laurens’ desk. Laurens reads over his father’s letter quickly, some news from Congress, a reply about Laurens’ horse, and –

“Birthday?” Hamilton says, reading the next part of the letter and drawing Laurens’ eye. “Is it your birthday?” Hamilton’s expression appears almost alarmed.

“Not today.”

Hamilton frowns and taps the letter. “But soon? Or has it recently passed? I realize now I never thought to inquire as to when it is.” Hamilton frowns again.

Laurens chuckles. “It has not passed. It is the twenty-eighth.”

Hamilton huffs. “You leave me two days to arrange for a present? I am quite beset now.”

“You need not be so. I require no present.”

“I shall certainly find you one.”

“You need not.”

“I will.”

Laurens laughs again. “Hamilton, we are at war. Presents and birthdays are hardly at the forefront of my mind or concern.”

“And neither should be dark corners for arms around you or kisses on your lips and yet you make time for these pleasures?”

Laurens’ mouth drops open in surprise but Hamilton is grinning again before Laurens may find himself properly flustered or annoyed. Hamilton leans over and kisses him again, slow and deep, his hand creeping up Laurens’ neck and into his hair.

“I jest,” Hamilton says against Laurens’ lips.

“Oh, I surmised.”

Laurens kisses him again then Hamilton pulls back. He picks up Laurens’ quill, taps it once on d’Arendt’s letter then points the feathered end at Laurens. “I shall obtain you a gift and you may not argue.”

Laurens chuckles. “I submit.”

 

The following day, when Laurens descends stairs at seven in the morning, he finds a mug of coffee on a table in the aide-de-camp office. Trapped underneath the mug lies a note bearing his name. Laurens frowns but picks up the coffee and note. He stares at the handwriting for moment then glances around the office. Only Meade sits writing at present.

“Kidder?” His eyes tick up to Laurens. “Where is Hamilton?”

Meade frowns. “He has come down?”

Laurens turns the note around to show Meade Hamilton’s handwriting. “As the coffee feels hot, I would suspect so.”

Meade makes a face then shakes his head. “I have no knowledge for you.”

Laurens smirks. “Of course you do, Kidder, just not on this matter.”

Meade colors slightly then dips his head back to his stacks of correspondence. Laurens grins then sits down at the table, setting to work on orders for Fort Mifflin. He takes a sip of the coffee as he reads over the reports. He pauses with a smile. The coffee has been prepared exactly how he likes it. Laurens wonders when Hamilton learned such a detail.

“Good, yes?”

Laurens looks up at Hamilton in the doorway, Tilghman scooting in past him.

“Yes, thank you.”

Tilghman knocks the book in his hand against Hamilton’s elbow. “Ask your questions a step more into the room, would you.”

Hamilton takes a dramatic step forward then looks at Tilghman. He waves his arm toward the now empty doorway. “At your service.”

Tilghman rolls his eyes but he smiles in contrast. 

John Fitzgerald walks through the door, shuffling a stack of letters. He pauses when he looks up to see Hamilton and Tilghman looking at him. “Yes?”

“You walked through the door without any hindrance,” Hamilton says seriously.

Fitzgerald frowns. “And what should have hindered me?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Tilghman replies.

Meade laughs and Laurens smiles. 

Fitzgerald sweeps his gaze around the room slowly then raises his eyebrows. “I am not asking.”

Hamilton grins once more then steps over to the table and sits down beside Laurens. He moves a stack of papers away from Meade and over toward himself instead. Meade flicks a half-rolled map toward Hamilton with a strained, “New Jersey.”

Hamilton grabs the map and taps it on Laurens’ hand holding the mug of coffee. “Happy early birthday.”

Laurens chuckles and nods. “Thank you again.”

“Did Hamilton say it is your birthday?” Meade asks, suddenly very attentive.

Laurens freezes, casting a look at Hamilton who continues to grin. “He also said ‘early’ in his felicitations.”

“Early?” Tilghman echoes.

“Early…” Meade frowns.

“Meaning not this day,” Fitzgerald interjects, “but I imagine we have little time for birthdays when we suspect an attack on Fort Mifflin any coming day.”

“Yes, any day,” Robert Hanson Harrison says as he appears in the doorway, “Fitzgerald is quite right.”

“You would deny Laurens his birthday joy?” Tilghman says, half-serious and half-joking. He gestures with the book still in his hand. “One does not turn his next year of age every year, to be sure.”

“No, surely they only turn such an age once,” Meade continues. “And can we deny him that?”

“The day will come no matter your crowing,” Harrison says sternly, the eldest of the lot of them and in such a position to act the father when he wishes. “But the war will change and could turn disastrous if we do not find some new intelligence among these reports to aid our forces.”

“Thank you,” Fitzgearld says. Then he looks at Laurens. “Happy birthday, Laurens, have a war.”

Laurens, Hamilton, and Meade all laugh in surprise. 

Tilghman sits back in his chair, finally dropping the book on the table. “Now, Fitzgerald, I believe jokes of most nature are my domain.”

“You cannot claim them all, Tilghman,” Hamilton interrupts, shaking Laurens shoulder. “The future gentleman with a birthday deserves such affection from all sides.”

“Quite so!” Meade says happily, opening another letter.

“And perhaps I am more of a humorist than you believe, Tilghman,” Fitzgerald says with a twist of his lips. “But certainly, think as you will.”

Harrison sighs but only shakes his head.

“And might we will,” Meade repeats as he looks toward the dining room entryway.

“Bonjour,” says the Marquis de Lafayette as he steps into the room.

All the aides jump up from their chairs to attention as they see General Washington standing behind Lafayette in the doorway with a small smile.

“Gentlemen, good morning,” the General starts, “let us talk about New Jersey.”

 

The morning revolves around the New Jersey defenses and the possible need for reinforcements. The debate about which General should sacrifice troops – who may take insult, whose position is less vulnerable, who lies at too far a distance, who is likely to attempt to ignore the order, who has been a General longer – causes Laurens to gain a pain in his head which persists until the midday meal.

Hamilton sits down beside Laurens where he sits in the hall near the kitchens, just having finished some bread and butter, a quick stop on his way back to work. Hamilton holds up an apple. “For you.”

“Fruit?” Laurens takes the apple, turning it around in his hand. “And why should the army merit such distinction?”

“It often should not with the poor state of much of our supplies, however, as you may note my smile can be quite winning.”

Laurens grins. “Indeed.”

“And the kitchen maids agreed when I added a wink or two.”

“My my, Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton.”

Hamilton grins. “So I was able to pry into the household stores and gain you this luscious item.”

“Luscious, indeed.”

“Happy early birthday, Laurens.”

“A second time.” Laurens sniffs the fruit then glances at Hamilton. “And again, I remind you, it is not yet my birthday.”

Hamilton takes the apple back, tossing it between his hands. “I did say ‘early’ and yet I am still at a loss as to a present for you.”

Laurens takes the apple back, his fingers lingering over Hamilton’s around the fruit. “An apple is not deemed enough for you? I am most pleased by your gifts of coffee and an apple. You need not find me more.”

Hamilton huffs. “Dear John, a drink and food hardly makes a proper gift.”

“Hamilton…”

“And I feel you, my close friend, deserve a proper gift.”

Laurens takes a bite of the apple, juicy if perhaps a day past the best ripe point. He chews, swallows then gestures to the apple. “I am pleased now. This is a fine gift. Do not waste what time you need for our work and General, Hamilton.”

Hamilton bumps their shoulders together on the bench where they sit then shakes his head. “Do not fear, Laurens, I am adept at completing many tasks at once.”

Laurens takes another bite of the apple. “So you say.” 

 

The day winds into the usual reading of incoming correspondence, transcribing orders to be sent to various sections of their forces as well as household issues of money and supplies and even a dispute about uniforms, or lack thereof, among enlisted men. At one point, Meade starts a conversation about the use of freed slaves in the army. Hamilton has to put a hand on Laurens’ arm to stop him jumping out of his chair shouting at Meade, so the debate cuts short. Laurens privately resolves to discuss his own opinions and hopes for a black regiment with Meade later as he knows that Meade is a kindhearted man and can certainly be won to Laurens’ point of view.

Late in the evening finds Laurens hiding in the library once more penning a letter in reply to his father. It is not that he finds the company of his fellow aides-de-camp and soldiers grating only he would prefer some peace at least once a day. With headquarters so busy and active, it is rare to do so. He is fortunate the library remains a refuge.

“And now this.” 

Laurens turns to Hamilton as he appears in the doorway with a handkerchief in hand. He walks in, pulls over the chair from the corner and sets it beside Laurens’ desk.

“I have brought you a present more.”

“And did I not say I should need no more?”

Hamilton chuckles. “And did I not say I would think on it more?”

Laurens tries to frown but finds the corners of lips turning up. “And what have I now from you?”

“Chocolate.”

Laurens eyebrows fly up. “Hamilton…”

Hamilton grins with pride as he unfolds the handkerchief to reveal the square within, clearly chopped from a larger block. “Yes.”

“You cannot be serious, Hamilton.” Laurens chuckles as Hamilton holds out the handkerchief to him. “And whose ration have you stolen?”

“Now, Laurens, I would not steal a gift for you.” Hamilton gives him a stern look. “We may have less chocolate rationed to us what with the British wanting their own chocolate drinks and taking supply from us but we are certainly not without.”

“I am satisfied.” 

Laurens takes a chunk of the chocolate, sucking on it for a moment while Hamilton watches him with a slowly changing expression. Laurens rather wishes to make good on the parting of Hamilton’s lips and his slow lean toward Laurens. So Laurens swallows his bite of chocolate then dips forward to press a kiss to Hamilton’s lips. Hamilton makes a noise of surprise but kisses back, running his tongue once over the inside of Laurens’ mouth, his hand on Laurens’ chin.

Hamilton pulls back, still close, fingers brushing over the smooth line of Laurens’ jaw. “Add a bit of ocean salt and you would taste like the Caribbean, Laurens.”

Laurens watches him, wishes Hamilton would tell him more – his crossing to New York, his home on an island somewhere further south than even Laurens; his family, what family he may have had or still does, what it sounded like, smelled like, what made him happy there – but he knows Hamilton will not.

“A taste of chocolate?”

“Of bitter sugar,” Hamilton says oddly. Then he leans back again and places the handkerchief with the little chocolate left on the desk. “And I still find it a wanting gift.”

Laurens scoffs. “Hamilton, am I not the one to judge the gifts I receive, and yet on the day before my birthday?”

“I know what you should deserve.” He touches Laurens knee, tapping with two fingers. “You should deserve more.”

“And don’t we all, Hamilton, an end to fighting, freedom of the British…”

“A command.”

Laurens chuckles. “Just so.”

“No, you shall not distract me, Laurens. I want only to give you something to please you, something worth you and another year of you here on this earth fortunately in my presence.”

Laurens laughs again at Hamilton’s philosophizing. What can he say to a man such as Hamilton who when he has an idea it must be performed? It is something which makes him adore Hamilton as much as he does, that spirit and drive, that heart.

“Tell me, Laurens,” Hamilton starts again, “what should you want for your birthday; any gift, were we not in war, duty bound, were you at home, were I able to magic anything you should wish, what would it be?”

Laurens smiles, runs a hand over Hamilton’s hair. “I believe I have what I would wish.”

Hamilton frowns. “Stacks of paper daily, a cramped hand and less field time than you should desire despite your exploits at Germantown and a wound to show for it?” He touches Laurens’ shoulder briefly. “That is what you wish?”

Laurens smiles. “No, you.” Hamilton’s amused frown shifts to confused surprise. Laurens touches Hamilton’s hand on his knee. “I should only want you, Hamilton.”

Hamilton purses his lips, clearly attempting not to grin in some sheepish or idiotic manner. Laurens rather hopes he shall lose the fight. 

Instead of grinning, however, Hamilton curls his hand around to thread his fingers with Laurens’ and quietly says, “Well then.”

 

The day of Laurens’ birthday is, as should be expected, unavoidably busy. Hamilton receives a letter from Marquis de Fleury. The letter includes the much hoped for description of the battle at Ford Mercer. However, it also includes a renewed fear of an attack on Fort Mifflin. General Washington sends the aides to various quarters drafting new orders, informing Congress of the battle won, as well as plans to rebuff any coming attack. Laurens finds himself on translation for de Fleury’s letter as well as transcriptions and fixing miscommunication about what should have been an easy transaction for new horses. All the aides and a few other officers spend two hours with the General analyzing the recent battle and what successes can be used in the next confrontation. The arguments are enough to make any man’s head spin. 

Come dinner that evening, Laurens rather wishes for the day to be over; Hamilton sits beside Laurens as they all eat, the dining room returned to its proper purpose for the hour. Fitzgerald philosophizes over land battles versus sea with Harrison, Lafayette and The General while Tilghman and Meade ridiculously debate the merits of coffee versus tea. Hamilton, every so often, sneaks his hand beneath the table to squeeze Laurens’ thigh or reaches across the table to retrieve another dish so his arm or elbow or hand brushes Laurens’. Laurens leans into the touch and slowly finds all the tension of the day flying away.

“And now we breathe,” Hamilton says as he watches Laurens drink the last of his wine.

“You say so, but we are bound to end up back in this same room in an hour’s time finishing another batch of orders.”

Hamilton makes an ‘hmm’ noise and nods. “And yet we will sleep eventually.”

“Hopefully.”

“I will ensure it.”

“Oh yes?”

Hamilton nods. “As your birthday present.”

“Ah, and it would be the most wanted birthday present of all my years.”

Hamilton chuckles then gives him a searching look. “Are you too weary?” His hand twitches as if he wants to touch Laurens but restrains himself. “You are not entirely exhausted, are you?”

Laurens shakes his head. “I have been far more exhausted than this day. It is simply the pace we have kept. It is well to sit for a meal.”

Hamilton breaks into a smile. “Perfect.”

“Perfect?”

Hamilton just smiles at him and does not explain.

 

The hour is near midnight when Hamilton stands beside him in the aide-de-camp office, possibly past, but Laurens has no clock within his sight to be sure. It does not truly matter because Hamilton takes his hand with such a look on his face that Laurens forgets all he writes.

Hamilton says, “I have something to show you.”

Laurens raises an eyebrow in question but Hamilton only smiles at him and pulls them from the room. Laurens follows, turning down the hall and then upstairs. They walk past the various bedrooms – the house owners, the General, a pair shared by the aides – and down a narrow hall where Laurens has not yet been. Hamilton reaches up and pulls a rope hanging from the ceiling opening a hatch above them. He pulls a small ladder from the corner then props it up in the space in the ceiling.

“Are we planning to commit ourselves to storage?” Laurens asks.

Hamilton smiles and gestures at the ladder. “After you.”

Laurens chuckles once then climbs up the ladder into the attic. The ceiling is slopped and unsurprisingly low so Laurens must stoop somewhat. However, the attic is not dark as he expected but lit by four or five candlesticks. Crates have visibly been pushed toward the walls and in the middle lies a neat pallet with two pillows. Laurens cannot breathe for two beats of his heart.

“I have told Meade you were sent with a letter to Philadelphia until late and Tilghman believes I am writing in the back library all evening, not to be disturbed, so I thought… well… happy birthday.”

Laurens looks at Hamilton beside him. Hamilton smiles still though Laurens sees the touch of worry, at possible rejection from Laurens. Laurens grips Hamilton’s hand, pulls him close and kisses him. He feels tension leaving Hamilton’s body, his hands up in Laurens’ hair.

“Then you –” Hamilton starts but Laurens cuts him off quickly with, “Yes.”

Hamilton makes a noise half between a laugh and a growl then they kiss in a frenzy. Hamilton tugs at his coat while Laurens keeps trying to pull him close, no air between them. Laurens pulls Hamilton’s hair free, twisting his fingers in curls as Hamilton drops his coat and starts tugging at Laurens’ coat in turn. The two of them move clumsily toward the pallet, missing kisses then grabbing at each other when a step knocks them apart. Laurens laughs once at their mutual eagerness, his coat off his shoulders. Hamilton pauses long enough to grin at Laurens, all eyes and red hair and freckles when Laurens is this close. Then Hamilton pushes Laurens’ coat the rest of the way off and it hits the wood floor.

Laurens’ heels finally trod on the thin pallet and he sinks down to sitting, Hamilton following him almost like falling. He crouches over Laurens, straddling his lap. Laurens runs both hands over Hamilton’s thighs, his ass then the front of his breeches. Hamilton gasps abruptly and clings onto Laurens’ shoulders, his forehead pressing against Laurens’.

“John…” he whispers, his breath stilted.

Clearly, they have waited long enough. Laurens rubs his hand up and down slowly, feeling Hamilton hard and ready through the cloth. Hamilton gasps and arches up into Laurens’ hand, trying to press closer. Laurens braces Hamilton with one hand tight on his hip. He pulls at the buttons of Hamilton’s breeches with his other hand. It is harder with only one hand until Hamilton lets go of Laurens’ shoulders and pulls at the buttons himself so Laurens’ hand can slide in past Hamilton’s small clothes. Laurens grips Hamilton’s shaft, stroking up and down, his fingertips grazing Hamilton’s balls. Hamilton groans and presses closer still, gasps against Laurens’ cheek. 

Laurens keeps stroking up and down, watching Hamilton’s face. Hamilton’s eyes are closed, his hands curling around Laurens’ neck. Laurens wonders about Hamilton’s past, if there were any boys at college – like with Laurens, one boy at least – only girls maybe or is Hamilton more inexperienced than one would expect?

“John, I –” Hamilton gasps hard as Laurens moves his thumb over the head of Hamilton’s shaft.

“God…” Hamilton groans as he kisses Laurens, heavy with teeth so Laurens almost forgets to keep his hand moving.

“John, I – John… I want…”

“I know.” Laurens kisses him, squeezes his hand, moves faster.

Then Hamilton spills into Laurens’ hand, leans heavily against Laurens, his hand gripping Laurens’ upper back. Laurens breathes slowly, his nose in Hamilton’s bright hair. He tries to keep the mess of his hand away from their clothes.

“Alexander,” he whispers into Hamilton’s hair, sliding his other hand up Hamilton’s side.

Hamilton shifts so they may look at each other once more. Laurens swallows and feels his chest tighten – will Hamilton be disgusted with what they have done, not just innocent kisses anymore? Hamilton glances down between them then laughs once in a self-conscious way.

“Oh dear.” He smiles and clears his throat. “And wearing so many clothes.”

Laurens laughs once in surprise. Then Hamilton starts to pull at Laurens’ cravat. Laurens tries to remove buttons on Hamilton’s waistcoat but he only has one hand with his other in such a state.

“I cannot…” he starts then stops talking as Hamilton kisses him again.

“Never mind, John,” Hamilton insists, finally getting Laurens’ neck cloth off.

“I mind,” Laurens insists.

Hamilton continues, however, “If you believe this was all my aim amounted to at the beginning of this then you are much mistaken.”

“I did not think so.”

“I need more of you,” Hamilton says, voice low as he kisses Laurens’ barred neck.

Laurens’ head spins for a moment, Hamilton’s mouth hot on his pulse. Then Laurens grabs up his neck cloth and uses it to wipe off his hand.

Hamilton laughs, looking up. “You need that.”

“I do not care,” Laurens says, throwing the ruined cravat to the side and grabs Hamilton’s hips with both hands.

Laurens kisses Hamilton’s lips and curves him to the side off Laurens’ lap. He wants to pull down Hamilton’s breeches completely, to move quickly, but they both still wear their boots.

“Damn it,” Laurens mutters, sitting up to tug at his boots, Hamilton doing the same beside him.

Laurens glances around the room quickly to see what Hamilton has brought apart from a bed and candles. Laurens sees nothing else apart from the crates and chests for storage. He pauses and looks at Hamilton with one boot off and one on still.

“Did you bring…” Laurens clears his throat awkwardly.

Hamilton looks at him in confusion.

“If you wanted to… if you wanted more,” Laurens says tactfully.

“Yes,” Hamilton says eagerly, gripping Laurens’ thigh, his hand sliding higher. “I want…”

“I could, that is I would like…”

“Yes,” Hamilton interrupts and Laurens is unsure if Hamilton even knows what he wants he answers so quickly. Perhaps that is the point.

“I mean to say,” Laurens continues, “I want to… if you would allow me.”

Hamilton’s eyes widen, his breath hitches and Laurens knows that Hamilton understands. He nods and his hand squeezes Laurens’ thigh. “Yes, yes, John.”

Laurens swallows, the tone of Hamilton’s voice making him harder than he already is. However, there are supplies they need because Laurens will not hurt Hamilton when they are meant to enjoy each other now, finally.

“Then we need something more.”

Hamilton stares. “Need…”

“Yes…”

“Oh, I…”

“I do not want to hurt –”

“You will not.”

“You say so but it is better –”

“Laurens – John, I do want….”

Laurens watches Hamilton and knows this is a first, maybe not the very first, not with anyone but certainly with a man like Laurens, with a man at all like this; It elates and terrifies him all at once.

“I do not want to hurt you,” Laurens says suddenly standing up.

Hamilton scrabbles after him. “John, wait!” He grips Laurens’ leg. “Please, do not leave!”

Laurens looks down at Hamilton in confusion then suddenly realizes Hamilton’s apprehension just as he felt himself. “I am not.” He leans down and kisses Hamilton. “I am not.”

He gazes at Hamilton staring up at him, red hair framing his face, lips dark from kisses, his clothing rumpled and his expression wanting. It is the most erotic and beautiful sight Laurens has seen before. His legs feel as if they may drop out beneath him.

“I simply need to retrieve us something to ease our pleasures.”

Hamilton stares at him. “Ah.”

Laurens kisses Hamilton once more. “I will be quick.”

Laurens turns quickly and hurries down the ladder. He stumbles down the hall, listening for other people. He thinks perhaps leaving the attic was not the best plan with the state he is in. However, there is no point going back now. The hour is late but headquarters keeps anything but conventional hours. Fortunately, Laurens finds a back servants stairs which lead him directly to the kitchens. He creeps in the door quietly, trying to avoid any people and keep his obvious state unobserved. He finds the kitchen blessedly empty. He looks around the hearth then finds what he had hoped for, a can of cooking lard.

He laughs once to himself as he picks it up. “Fortunate.”

Then he turns back through the door and up the stairs. He pauses at the base of the ladder. His thoughts race with worst-case scenarios – Hamilton dressed, saying ‘no, I was wrong,’ Hamilton rejecting him, Hamilton gone.

Laurens climbs up the ladder and stops at the top, closing the upper hatch behind him. Hamilton lies on the pallet, all skin exposed in the candle light, his clothes in a neat pile with his boots beside a crate. He lies half on his side and looks over at Laurens where he stands.

Hamilton smiles slowly at Laurens. “Hello.”

“Ha…” Laurens replies breathlessly.

Hamilton smirks, propping his head up on his hand. “Do you plan to simply stand there and watch me for the evening, Laurens?”

Laurens blows out a breath. “Oh, I surely could.”

Hamilton gives him a wry look. “I would prefer you did more.”

Laurens laughs breathlessly again. He cannot understand how he is so lucky, so happy in this moment having something – someone, his Alexander – so very divine before him.

“John,” Hamilton says somewhat sternly, “come here.”

Laurens’ feet move and he walks back over to the bed, dropping to his knees beside Hamilton. Hamilton looks at the tin in Laurens’ hand, raises his eyebrows for a moment. Then he takes the tin away and puts it to the side. He grips Laurens’ face, pulls him close and kisses him once more. Laurens runs his hands all over Hamilton, so much skin bared he has never seen before.

“So many freckles,” he says into their kiss.

Hamilton laughs as he unbuttons Laurens’ waistcoat. “And what might you be hiding?”

“Nothing from you,” Laurens whispers as he casts the waistcoat aside.

Laurens turns away for a moment to tug off his boots. Hamilton shifts around behind Laurens, presses close to his back, moves his hair and kisses the back of Laurens’ neck. Laurens finds himself distracted as Hamilton kisses slowly, his tongue mapping Laurens’ skin and his hands pulling Laurens’ shirt from his breeches. Laurens manages one boot but seems to forget how to remove the other with Hamilton’s hands on the skin of his stomach.

“Your boot, John,” Hamilton reminds him as he kisses down Laurens’ neck.

“It is your fault,” Laurens retorts, finally getting his second boot off, followed by his stockings.

“I know.”

Then Hamilton turns Laurens by his shoulders. He pulls Laurens shirt up and over his head. Laurens drops it without a thought and presses kisses onto Hamilton’s lips, a hand in Hamilton’s hair and the other moving lower. He grips Hamilton’s shaft again, making Hamilton gasp. Hamilton squeezes his hands on Laurens’ hips just breathing for a moment. Then he makes a frustrated noise and kisses Laurens harder. His hands pull at the buttons on Laurens’ breeches.

“John, please.”

Laurens pulls his hands away to yank at his breeches and small clothes, while Hamilton grips his neck, pulling Laurens down on top of him on the blankets. Laurens manages to kick his last clothes away without tearing any buttons. Then there is only skin on skin, Hamilton’s hands, his lips, his hips arching up against Laurens’. Laurens groans, moves to nip and suck at Hamilton’s neck. Hamilton grips Laurens’ ass, pushing him down and grinding them together.

Laurens gasps against Hamilton’s skin. “Alex...”

“Please, John, I need –”

“Yes, oh, Alex...”

Laurens grabs for the tin he procured smearing the grease on his hand. It seems so ignoble but he wants them both to enjoy every second of this. He reaches between them and rubs some on himself. He feels Hamilton tense and sees his own hand shake as he touches Hamilton with his slick hand.

“You may say no,” Laurens says uncertainly.

“‘No’ is not the word I would say,” Hamilton replies, shifting his hips closer to Laurens. “Do not worry, please.”

Laurens nods once and moves between Hamilton’s legs, shifts them to the right position. He leans forward, keeps one hand on Hamilton’s hip, plants his other on the bed. He moves forward slowly, pushing himself into Hamilton. Hamilton hisses at once in pain.

Laurens freezes and touches Hamilton’s arm. “I can stop, if you –”

“No.”

“Alex –”

Hamilton grips Laurens biceps, relaxes and kisses Laurens again as he breathes, “do not stop.”

Laurens moves again slowly, trying to be careful, to not be so afraid himself. Hamilton hisses again but they shift, Hamilton moves his hips down and Laurens slides deeper. Then Hamilton gasps, lustful and surprised and suddenly eager.

“Oh, John, I – Oh.”

“Yes...”

Laurens moves, thrusts as Hamilton pushes back against him. They start slowly, foreheads pressed together, breathing hard, Hamilton’s hands clinging onto Laurens’ sides, until they reach a rhythm. They kiss heavily, Laurens’ hands running over Hamilton’s neck, his thighs, stroking his penis, his ass; Hamilton pulls at Laurens’ hair, bites his lips, gasps hard and fast, digs his nails into Laurens’ ass as if he wants to leave marks and claim Laurens as his. Laurens would say yes, that he is already claimed completely for Hamilton.

They move faster, no more words, only the sounds of their harsh breath and skin sliding together. Hamilton lets out a whimper as Laurens hits him deep and Laurens cannot hold on – so warm and slick and Hamilton’s hands on his thighs and Hamilton tight around him and the soft sounds he makes, needy and wanting and Laurens kissing him as if it were their last time, if it should be the only time. 

Laurens finishes with a groan and his face in Hamilton’s neck. He strokes Hamilton twice more before he is gasping over the edge too. They breathe together then, slowing down. Laurens nuzzles his nose against Hamilton’s cheek. He feels Hamilton smile as his hands trace a line up Laurens’ back. Then Laurens carefully pulls back, Hamilton making a small noise, and he shifts to the side next to Hamilton.

“Hmm,” Hamilton says significantly.

Laurens lies on his stomach and glances at Hamilton still lying on his back. Hamilton turns his head and smiles at Laurens. “And you thought we might stop.”

Laurens chuckles. “I am pleased we did not.”

Hamilton laughs too. “Ah, ‘pleased,’ he says.”

“Very.”

Hamilton laughs again and lazily trails a hand down Laurens’ side to his hip.

Laurens feels sweaty and messy but also no desire to move from this spot for near anything in the world.

“John?”

Laurens opens his eyes, not realizing he had closed them. “Alexander.”

Hamilton smiles, shy and pleased as he always does when Laurens says his given name. “You would not sleep yet?”

“No.” Laurens curls his arms under his head and props his chin up. “No, I would watch you all night, just as you are now.”

Hamilton’s expression shifts, shyer still, an uncommon one on his face. “You need not only watch me.”

“I know but I need to rest a moment.”

Hamilton shifts onto his side, one leg hooked over Laurens’. He kisses Laurens and rubs a hand over the back of his neck.

“I want you as mine all night,” Hamilton whispers. “Until our candles burn out.”

“Until the sun rises?”

“As long as I am able.”

Laurens shifts to his side so he can pull Hamilton closer and wrap his arms around him. “Then have me,” he says. “I am yours.” He kisses Hamilton, tangles their legs together. “Have me.”

 

Come morning, early with the first rays of sun appearing, they still lie together. They have slept little and touched every bit of skin they could – gasping, thrusting, kissing, even laughing as they moved together twice, three times more with each hour they had. Laurens thinks he could die now in Hamilton’s arms having known every intimate touch of him, every kiss.

“John?” Hamilton whispers.

“We will need to descend soon,” Laurens says. “Some may become suspicious.”

“Soon,” Hamilton says, kissing his temple, “not yet.”

“Not yet,” Laurens repeats and kissing him more.

“Or we might stay.”

Laurens curls closer around Hamilton. “Yes.”

“All day.”

“Yes.”

“All night.”

“Yes.”

“Shall you only say yes?”

Laurens laughs and runs his hand through Hamilton’s hair. “Would you prefer I say no?”

Hamilton smiles at him and traces lines over Laurens’ face. Laurens closes his eyes as Hamilton touches him. Hamilton touches Laurens cheeks, his lips, his forehead and kisses each spot his fingers touch. He murmurs Laurens’ name, kisses his eyes and runs his hand over Laurens’ chest.

“Laurens?”

Laurens sighs, the return of his surname surely meaning they must return to the war and their work below. He opens his eyes. “Hamilton.”

Hamilton sits up and looks down at him. He leans over, kisses Laurens once then sits up again. He glances around then reaches behind Laurens’ head above the pillows and picks up his hair ribbon. He slides the ribbon under his hair, twirls his hair and promptly drops the ribbon. Laurens laughs then sits up. He picks up the ribbon. He slides close to Hamilton, reaches around Hamilton and ties the ribbon where Hamilton holds his hair.

“Presentable?” Hamilton asks as he drops his hands.

Laurens purses his lips. “If you had not slept.”

Hamilton barks a laugh then stands up, gathering up his clothing. “As I have had little, it does appear appropriate.”

“But should anyone –”

“I fell asleep in the library, hardly a surprise.” Hamilton cocks his head to the side. “If you have not heard, I have an excellent work ethic.”

Laurens nods. “You do.”

Hamilton pulls on his small clothes and stockings, bouncing once on a foot. He pulls his shirt over his head, his breeches then his waistcoat. “I shall venture down and if anyone should ask after you, you are rising now.”

“I will need to visit my room for a new cravat.” Hamilton chuckles, pulling on his boots. Laurens props himself up on his elbows, the blankets low around his waist. “And convince Fitzgerald I only returned this morning.”

Hamilton nods. “A far better lie.”

Laurens frowns. “You need not say it so.” Hamilton just gives him a nonplussed look. Laurens nods back. “You are right.”

“I am.” Hamilton finishes tying his cravat then picks up his coat, pulling it over his arms. He holds out his arms. “Grand?”

“Beautiful.”

He eyes Laurens up and down. “And yet I would rather take the whole off once more.”

Laurens stands up, the blankets falling down. Hamilton’s eyes follow the falling blanket as Laurens walks over to him. Laurens wraps his arms around Hamilton’s waist. He feels Hamilton shiver as he runs his hands down Laurens' naked skin, his hands lingers low on Laurens’ back. 

Laurens kisses Hamilton once then fixes an errant hair. “Go.”

“You make it so undesirable to do so.”

Laurens chuckles, straightens Hamilton’s collar then steps out of Hamilton’s hand. “Go, sir.”

Hamilton stares at Laurens for a long moment then drags his eyes away, turning toward the attic hatch with a disgruntled sound. Laurens smiles as Hamilton opens the hatch, checks the floor below then climbs down. Laurens flops back down on the pallet and sighs happily.

 

Neither Hamilton nor Laurens receive any questions through the day about the night before. Tilghman remarks about Hamilton’s evening long writing journey but, apart from this jest, they start to work as any other day. 

Hamilton grins the day away – he smirks at Meade and Tilghman’s banter, happily helps with supply lists, grins at the General and Harrison during their briefing, practically jumps up to ride with Fitzgerald and every time Laurens enters the room his smile lights up even more. 

“You would believe the war won this day, Hamilton,” Harrison remarks. “Have you some knowledge we do not?”

Hamilton only tilts his head, glances at Laurens then looks at Harrison. “Cannot a man be glad to draw breath?”

“This glad?” Fitzgerald quips.

“And would that we all were,” Meade interrupts. “As for you, Hamilton, the General requires you and Harrison for the council of war.”

Hamilton stands up so it is practically a bounce, his hand sliding across Laurens’ as he does. “And I am happy to serve!”

Harrison chuckles at Hamilton as they walk out the door. “Our little lion.”

Laurens, alternatively, finds himself the clumsiest man in the army – he walks into a doorframe when Hamilton passes in the hall, he blots ink on two letters when Hamilton’s leg brushes his, he drops a stack of ready letters for the courier out on the grass when he thinks of Hamilton lying on their attic bed.

When Hamilton jumps up to assist the General during the war council, Hamilton’s hand sliding over his, Laurens knocks over an inkpot. FItzgerald quickly pulls up the ledger in front of him up, grabbing the inkpot and turning it right again.

“Laurens...” Fitzgerald raises his eyebrows at him as Laurens grimaces.

“Apologies, Fitzgearld.”

Fitzgerald shakes his head then pulls his handkerchief out and holds it out to Laurens. “Do save the table.”

“This reminds me of, Reed,” Tilghman says with a wicked smile.

Laurens cannot rightfully glare at Tilghman but grimaces instead.

 

After the war council, Laurens waits outside the door ostensibly to take any reports or notes or annotated maps. When Hamilton emerges, what appears to be all the paperwork in his hands, he smiles instantly upon the sight of Laurens.

“Can I assist you?” Laurens asks.

Hamilton smirks. “Can you?” Laurens raises his eyebrows. “You have spilled ink and dropped numerous items today. Meade mentioned a knee hitting the table.”

Laurens sighs. “I shall have you to steady me with your smile.”

Hamilton grins more. “Ah, and not unsteady you?”

Laurens takes two of the rolled maps from Hamilton in both hands and purses his lips. “Steady.”

“Yes.” Hamilton’s eyes slide up and down Laurens slowly with a grin. “Quite steady.”

As they walk down the hall, back toward the dining room turned aide-de-camp office, Hamilton suddenly pulls them down a hall toward the kitchen. He turns them down the opposite direction and into the deserted library. Laurens wonders why none of the other aides make use of it. Hamilton puts the papers down on the desk and pushes Laurens against the wall.

“Hello,” Laurens says.

Hamilton smiles. “Hello.” Hamilton kisses him once. “I simply wished....”

Laurens smiles back, threads his fingers in Hamilton’s hair and kisses him again – lips he will never tire of kissing. “I know.”

 

The following morning General Washington calls Hamilton into his office first thing. 

“Perhaps he shall happily receive a command,” Meade says.

“Or a reprimand,” Tilghman counters.

“He has done nothing,” Laurens interjects indignantly.

“As far as we know,” Tilghman says then whispers, “Have you seen the kitchen maids?”

Meade only scoffs as Laurens glares at Tilghman.

When Hamilton returns to the aide-de-camp office, his hat under his arm and a bag over his shoulder, his face appears stern.

“Ah, have you been sent as the rider this morning, Hamilton?” Meade asks. He makes a face. “I am not tired of it; the General need not spare me as I need not be spared.”

“Well put,” Tilghman says with evident sarcasm.

“Not as such, Meade,” Hamilton says then he looks at Laurens. “Laurens, might I speak with you?”

Laurens puts down his quill and stands up, following Hamilton into the hall. Hamilton walks them to the front parlor. Some maps rest on the table under the window, the plush chairs pushed against the walls and boxes stacked in front of the hearth. Hamilton paces across the carpet, glances over Laurens’ shoulder then paces again, turning his hat around in his hand.

“Hamilton?”

“The General has given me orders to travel to Albany.”

Laurens nods. “Ah.”

“To obtain reinforcements for our forces from General Gates.”

“General Gates... in Albany...” Laurens echoes.

Hamilton stops pacing and stares at Laurens. “I am to leave at once.”

Laurens blows out a breath, his chest suddenly tight and his stomach queasy. “I see.”

“Laurens, I asked if another could –”

“It shows his trust in your abilities,” Laurens interrupts with an attempt at enthusiasm. “You will be well suited to the task. Should General Gates try to argue against the orders you are sure to convince him otherwise. Who has such a command of words as you?”

Hamilton smiles a little but his expression falls again. “Laurens, I am sorry.”

Laurens forces a smile. “You need not apologize. We each have a duty.”

Hamilton grips Laurens’ hand. “It will not be long.”

“It will not,” Laurens reaffirms as much for himself as for Hamilton. “You shall return.”

“I will.” Hamilton squeezes his hand. “No more than a month.”

“Yes.”

“Not the birthday gift I should have wished for you.”

Laurens laughs lightly. “Hamilton...”

Hamilton smiles. “I must go.” Hamilton stares at Laurens as if he may kiss him. Instead, he only pulls his hand away. “I will see you upon my return.”

Hamilton stares at Laurens a moment longer, swallows once then sucks in a breath. He walks around Laurens toward the door but Laurens grips his arm as he passes. He thinks of all the things which could happen on the road – bullets, swords, British scouts, dragoons, even a lamed horse. Hamilton turns back, kisses Laurens once quickly then pulls away.

“I shall miss you but I shall think of the feel of you,” he runs his hand down the buttons of Laurens’ waistcoat, “every night.”

“Alexander...” Laurens breathes deeply, his hand tight on Hamilton’s arm. “Be safe and return to me.”

Hamilton nods and this time smiles for real. “I will, John, and happy birthday.”

Laurens smiles too and watches Hamilton walk out, putting his hat on his head, charming and beautiful as he was when they were alone in the candle light – his Hamilton, his Alexander – who will return to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh wait, so I have a sex and historical surroundings for this story, surprised? Of course not, that is the usual for this series.
> 
> [Headquarters during the war](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Washington%27s_Headquarters_during_the_Revolutionary_War)  
> [Dawesfield](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dawesfield)  
> [American Revolution Timeline](https://ciceroprofacto.tumblr.com/post/137034716831/american-revolution-timeline)  
> [Baron d’Arendt to Lieutenant Colonels Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens, 26 October [1777]](https://founders.archives.gov/?q=Recipient%3A%22Laurens%2C%20John%22&s=1111311111&r=3)  
> [History of Chocolate](http://www.history.org/history/teaching/enewsletter/volume9/jan11/featurearticle.cfm)


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